Kushiel's Chosen

sailors, after all, and the island is rich in oak and cypress. I was happy to see that they were well-rested and of reasonably good cheer; and, too, they had seen to the security of our coffer of gold. And I confess, I was glad too of the Illyrians' company and their simple jests, taking comfort in what had become familiar to me.
    They believed to a man that Kazan would overcome the challenge of the thetalos and return to them as he had been before, a fierce and cunning leader who would inflict great damage on their enemies and escape unscathed. Indeed, they had begun to spin their own mythos out of the events that had befallen us, endlessly enumerating the ways in which Kazan would take his vengeance on the treacherous Serenissimans.
    I smiled and jested with them, and prayed that they had the right of it, for Kazan's sake and my own. For vengeance I cared naught, but somewhere in Caerdicca Unitas, Ysandre's progressus continued on its steady, unwitting course toward a deadly trap, while in Terre d'Ange, Percy de Somerville awaited word to seize the City of Elua. This long waiting was a torment.
    When the sun began to set, I returned to the Palace, where preparations were beginning for the ritual. Make no mistake of it; I had no place in these rituals, save as an onlooker, and that by the grace of the Kore, my lady Pasiphae. Still, they suffered my presence, and as my lips were not sealed by oath, I may relate what I saw of the ceremony-and what I saw afterward, although that is another matter. It began outside the Palace, at the base of the mountain, with three tiers of initiates providing the music, chorus and dance. Torches lit the procession and the dancers wheeled in circles, this way and that, their mingled voices providing the harmonies. They had put off their robes for this and wore only kilts of white linen, cinched at the waist with rolled leather belts, and their dark skin gleamed in the torchlight, freshly oiled. At the center of it all stood Kazan Atrabiades, swaying on his feet, and his face was like a stranger's to me. Neither food nor drink had he taken since we had made landfall; two full days. He looked gaunt and parched, and his eyes burned in their sockets.
    This is his choice, I reminded myself, remembering the kríavbhog; if he has a chance to be free of it, 'tis not my place to gainsay it. Still, I feared for him.
    There came then a great clash of bronze cymbals, and two torches were lit, great pitch-soaked logs stood on end. I could not help but remember La Dolorosa and my fall from the cliffs, Tito's massive torch spinning through the dark night above me; but betwixt them stood the Kore, and her presence drove out aught else.
    The Maiden, it means, her title; and I daresay 'twas no more than that, for I had already gauged by the thickening of her waist that she had born children. No matter, for she was well and truly what she claimed by right of that title, the handmaiden of Mother Dia. She wore the ancient regalia for that rite, the flounced skirts sewn with ivory plaques, and the bodice that bared her breasts, nipples darkened with henna. A gold diadem was set atop her head, and her hair had been crimped with hot irons, falling in spiraling curls over her shoulders.
    Although there were men and women alike among the initiates, here the Kore was attended only by priestesses. On Kriti, as in too many other places, the rule of law is given unto the province of men, but at the heart of matters, it is women who hold authority. So it was that while the Hierarch saw to the daily governance of the Temenos and oversaw the initiates in the ways of the mysteries, it was the Kore who sanctified them.
    Flutes skirled and fell silent, and the revolving dancers came to a halt. The Kore spoke, then, and some trick of the acoustics of that place made her clear-spoken words resonate in every ear. "What do you seek, supplicant?"
    Wavering but upright, Kazan made his reply, his tongue thick with thirst and garbling the memorized Hellene speech. "I seek to be cleansed of blood-guilt for the death of my brother."
    "What do you offer in sacrifice?" Her words were measured out like pearls on a string.
    "I offer my name, and my memory." Swaying, Kazan caught himself, and continued in a firmer voice. "I offer whatever you will take."
    A pause, and then she spoke again. "It is enough."
    Ah, Elua! I thought, as the Kore's priestesses brought forth water and grain, scarce enough to moisten his mouth to swallow. 'Tis